


The Did It Really Happen Affair

by selyndae



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5657395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you had the chance to go back and change something, would you? I wonder...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

With a sigh, Napoleon Solo leaned back in his chair and stretched. It was getting late, but he really needed to clear his desk before packing it up for the night. A foolish bet made after a lot of drinking and a hot fudge sundae… The details were a bit fuzzy, but the consequences were unfortunately all too clear.

Which was why he was stuck here working on reports while Illya was not!

He really _was_ tired though, and really _needed_ the promised time off. Back-to-back affairs kept them hopping and thoughts of any kind of break was a kind of dim memory. Seriously, other than impromptu dates with some of the UNCLE lovelies or the even rarer dinner with his partner, things had been non-stop. He took a sip of coffee and frowned— _cold, ugh_. With a sigh, he sat down the cup and glared at the papers. Picking up his pen, he began tapping it against his chin he reflected on the last six months. 

It had been around the first of the year when they’d gotten that little break after preventing Thrush from getting antimatter from Dr. Rutter. The almost-break in the suburbs didn’t last long before they were whisked off on missions to Sweden and Australia. The next mission had them inadvertently separated when Illya was trapped on a ship while investigating a tidal-wave machine.

Then off to Paris, to Greece, and back to New York, a trip to the Midwest one week and off to the Alps the next. 

Perfect skiing conditions, but— they were once again sent off on a crazy affair trying to get a line on a secret code woven into a ‘mod’ fabric.

At least they were in New York for a change…

A smirk settled on his lips as he remembered that particular encounter with Thrush. While there had been the usual tense moments, he’d been completely astonished seeing Illya do that gymnast routine on the garment rod…

_University of Georgia… really?_

Tapping his pen idly against the desk, he wondered why he’d never seen his partner do anything like that before. He snorted; his partner was a talented liar and the odds of this actually having been the truth, well! His eyes fell back on the unfinished reports. With a grimace he went back to work; that particular question would have to wait until later…

 

Not finding his partner down in the labs, Napoleon headed for the gym. Shaking his head indulgently, he smiled as he thought of his never-still partner. This late, there was probably no one for sparring, but there were other exercises…

Entering the work-out room he caught his breath at the sight of his partner gracefully pulling himself up onto a pair of gymnastic rings. In an effortless move, Illya spun around, both arms extended straight out from the sides. Holding that position perfectly motionless for what seemed like forever, he held his legs straight out in front of him. Napoleon couldn’t help but notice how the arm and shoulder muscles bunched pleasingly. His partner was so slight, it was easy to overlook the hidden strength in the man’s small stature.

Even as he studied the smooth line made by the body’s position, his partner abruptly spun around in a kind of somersault before releasing the rings and landing lightly upon the mat. The landing was almost flawless—only the slight unevenness of the left leg kept the performance from complete perfection.

“Wow.”

Illya froze before remarking pointedly, “You’ve completed the paperwork I see…”

Napoleon, hand over heart looked pained. “Could you doubt me?”

His partner picked up his crumpled towel and used it to pat the perspiration from his face and shoulders. Feeling his partner’s stare, he paused. “What?”

Napoleon grinned. “Now that our desks are clear, I thought we could grab some dinner. Maybe try out that new restaurant, uh, Ponte’s?”

“Don’t you have a date?”

“Ah, no…”

Illya smirked. “I thought you were going out with that model—that blonde with her hair all piled up on top of her head.”

Napoleon sighed. “She got called in to do another show.” Grinning he added, “It seems Ramona took off with Jerry to Maryland.”

“What happens when she learns the truth?”

Solo shrugged. “Chances are the little nuances that keep life interesting.”

Illya’s lips twitched into his half-grin. “So, is this by _chance_ , a further bribe?”

“Will it stop the paperwork?” Napoleon looked hopeful. “I could really enjoy my down time then.”

Illya merely shook his head. “Whatever am I going to do with you…?”

 

_BEEP…BEEP…BEEP_

Groaning at the sound of his communicator going off, Napoleon fumbled for the device.

“Solo here.”

_“Mr. Solo, is Mr. Kuryakin with you?”_

“What—? Uh, no Sir.” Napoleon ran his hand over his face.

A brief silence. _“I’m sorry, but you’ll need to postpone your vacation. We’ve had an… unsettling communication from Thrush in regards to Mr. Kuryakin…”_

“I can be there in… 15 min—”

_“No, Mr. Solo. That is precisely what you will not do. Er, that is—I’m sending a team to your apartment to act as escort.”_

“Sir—?”

_“They’ll be there in exactly—”_ A pause. _“—six minutes.”_

Staring at his now silent pen, Solo finally closed his communicator as he began getting ready. 

At the prescribed time, Solo was nearly finished when the coded knock came. Surprised to see Mark Slate with three other agents, his only reaction was a raised eyebrow as he let the group in. On his way back to his dressing room, though, he looked pointedly at Mark. “A bit of overkill isn’t it?”

Mark looked pensive. “Orders…” He fell silent.

Napoleon’s gut clenched involuntarily but revealing nothing outwardly, asked, “Look, I may as well hear the worst. Is he—?”

“No!” Slate hastened to reassure, “At least, well, we don’t really know anything.” He threw up his hands in frustration, “I’ve never seen Mr. Waverly so angry…”

Waverly angry? That surprised him. With an impatient shake, he finished buttoning his shirt and threw on a tie. Hastily knotting it he strode away without another word. And, as the powerful car took them to headquarters, Napoleon pondered Waverly’s anger…

 

_Captured again._ Illya glanced around the room through barely opened eyelids in disgust. This was getting to a bit of a habit…

“I see you’re awake.” 

The protagonist, a pot-bellied, slightly stooped man with lank, mousy brown hair and large protruding front teeth rubbed his hands together in glee as he walked around the caged enclosure. Finally nodding his head happily, almost enough to dislodge his tortoise shell glasses, he stopped his apparent evaluation and snapped his fingers.

“Forrest, bring the tablet!”

A bulky man left briefly. When he returned, he had a briefcase which he placed on a table and presented to the leader with a small flourish.

Chained to the chilly cinder-block walls of the basement, Illya had been analyzing his options. The cage bars added to the dismal, dungeon-like feel of the basement—especially since he was manacled to the wall, and his chances for escape looked pretty bleak. He sighed. It was still early yet…

“Mr. Kuryakin, I have long admired your fortitude. Even though you work for the opposing side, you are, nevertheless, to be admired.”

“You’re very kind.”

“No, no, please, don’t mention it.” Twitching his nose eagerly in a decidedly rabbit-like manner, he gushed, “I am Michael Theodore Toune. Tell me, do you ever miss it?”

Maintaining a neutral expression, Illya was nevertheless puzzled at the apparent non sequitur.

Toune stared intently at his prisoner before returning his somewhat fevered gaze to his papers. “I’m speaking of the 1951 Olympics.”

That got a small start of surprise from the Russian. He tried to hide it, but the Thrush caught the small movement.

A squinty twitch and brisk nod showed Toune’s delight. “I thought I saw something in the way you move. You’re very graceful you know. Talent as well as training, I think.”

Illya remained silent.

Toune posed, hands clasped firmly behind his back and began to recite, his voice taking on the pedantic quality of a lecturing professor. “Because of some glimpse of this talent, even during the War, you were noticed by your teachers and sent for ballet and gymnastics training. The ballet training led to better coordination and flexibility, and your gymnastics skills soared. As a result, you were given more advanced training.”

Behind the gleaming glasses, his pale eyes looked sympathetic as he studied his prisoner. “You were a top finalist on the Soviet Union’s Gymnastic team when a tragic…accident caused your knee and hip to shatter, destroying all possibilities of ever competing again.”

Illya’s face remained frozen, but something in his eyes looked faintly haunted.

“Your hopes—even dreams were taken away with that injury.” Toune shook his head regretfully. “Alas, the real tragedy was how the incident came about, that is wasn’t just a tragic accident as the subsequent investigation proved deliberate intent. The bars were sabotaged enough to break through with your signature double flip.” Glancing up he stared intently at his prisoner for a long moment. “Of course, when the perpetrator was discovered to be a close relative of a high-ranking member of the Party, he was sent to Siberia to reflect on his poor choices instead of being shot…while you languished in a hospital. All those months!

“Do you miss it? I wonder… what if you could do it all over again? Go back to _before_ it happened? What if you could bypass the whole thing _and not go through it?”_

Illya’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, yes, I am quite serious. You see, I have invented a kind of… well, a time displacement device which can send someone back to a specific time in the past… _with their memories completely intact.”_

“Are you trying to make me believe that you have a way to go back to the past, and change it, and are not using it yourself?” Illya asked sarcastically.

Toune began pacing as he worked on convincing the stubborn Russian. “A few changes to the past could only _enhance_ our future! Think of it! One little change, say, keeping President Lincoln from attending a certain play on a certain night; which would allow him another term in office where undoubtedly, he could have done a great deal of good.” 

Stopping suddenly, he whirled around, almost nose-to-nose with his prisoner. “Perhaps having prior knowledge of ‘bad’ equipment, say, before the 1951 Olympic tryouts would have prevented a promising young athlete from serious injury, thus allowing him a chance to secure gratifying recognition for his country… and the opportunity to save a young wife from a needless accident…”

Illya stared, shocked that this man knew about Dasha.

Oblivious to the shock he’d given the Russian, Toune continued. “Some of the Thrush leaders in power would _abuse_ this opportunity! Instead of gently altering a few small, key events, they would immediately go for the grandiose—perhaps even causing a downfall of our organization…”

Understanding flashed. “You need a test subject…” 

“My machine will only work up to a certain weight limit.” The Thrush’s nose twitched nervously as he added, “I’ve tested it as far as I can without using a human subject…”

 

Staring at his desk, Napoleon found himself casting back to the silly bet he’d made—was it only two weeks ago? Two weeks and nothing! It was almost as if Illya had dropped off the face of the planet…

A sudden chill down his back made him shiver. He shook himself, not quite daring to put credence to the idea… But, why did he keep getting the feeling that something really, _really_ bad was going on with his partner?

_BEEP_

“Solo, here.”

_“Napoleon, report to Mr. Waverly’s office at once.”_

He frowned at his communicator. “On my way, Heather, uh, five minutes?”

This was met by silence, then a crackle and, _“I’ll let him know… just… hurry.”_

His mouth dry at the sudden frisson on fear that tickled down his spine, Solo took another look at his office, gaze settling on his partner’s desk. Slipping on his suit jacket, he patted it automatically checking to see that his holster was concealed as he headed out the door.

 

Entering Waverly’s office, Solo was surprised to see his boss speaking quietly with a very dapper Victor Martόn. Restricting himself to simply a briefly raised eyebrow, he casually strolled over to a seat rather nearer his supervisor than usual. A faint twitch from Waverly acknowledged the unusual move. The chief enforcement agent began to sit, his left hand casually unbuttoning his suit coat as he settled himself in the chair. Sitting back, he affected a relaxed posture as he observed the two older men.

“Now then, Victor, I’d like you to tell Mr. Solo what you’ve just told me.” Waverly nodded his greeting to Solo and leaned back in his own chair.

Martόn nodded briefly at Waverly’s top agent before steepling his fingers together lightly and tapping them against his lips. With a sigh, he looked back at U.N.C.L.E.’s chief and moved his hands back down to rest lightly on the table before speaking.

“Thrush has been my life, Mr. Solo, make no mistake of that. While we’ve, on occasion, made small errors in judgment, we’ve also had many glorious successes. Certainly our plan of world-wide domination is a worthy one; however, we must take care to make it a real win.

“Everyone has second thoughts. 

“For example, what if I’d stopped Miss Belmont earlier on? We would have secured the thought translator for ourselves rather than the eventual chain of events that did happen, which caused its destruction…” He glanced sideways at Waverly. “Thus avoiding that tedious time confined—which would have been most welcome.”

“Come, come, Victor, you weren’t treated badly,” chided Alexander softly.

A gleam of mockery glinted in Victor’s eye momentarily. He cleared his throat and continued his narration.

“As I was saying, these things, as well of thousands of other little actions, have had a rippling effect, so to speak, on how things eventually play out.”

Napoleon felt suddenly spooked at what Martόn was saying. With a shake, he argued, “I hate to burst your bubble, but time travel… really, that’s the stuff of science fiction writers.”

The Thrush mogul glanced at his U.N.C.L.E. counterpart and gave Waverly a knowing nod before turning back to Solo.

“A thought translator device could also be said to be fantasy and yet…”

Napoleon tipped his head in reluctant agreement.

“Let us not forget, Mr. Solo, Thrush has millions of dollars to spend on scientific developments if that is what it takes to bring her closer to her goal. A time displacement apparatus is certainly not too outré.”

There was silence.

“Why would you help us?” demanded Solo abruptly.

Martόn permitted himself a slight smile. “Why not…?”

Solo glared, the fingers on his right hand giving a slight twitch.

Martόn shrunk back. Before he could speak though, Waverly gave a warning grunt.

“We have no time to waste with posturing. Now then, shall we begin?”

As the collaborator relaxed, Solo gave a puzzled glance at his supervisor. “Ah, begin…?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo. Victor has been kind enough to provide the codes and coordinates for their, ah, Detroit Satrap, where Mr. Kuryakin is believed to be held.”

 

The Satrap was deserted, and by the looks of things, at least two days ago. 

Poking through the ruins of what had probably been a warehouse in one of the suburbs just outside the Detroit city limits, Napoleon felt increasingly discouraged. Thrush had destroyed their own stronghold… why?

Working his way down past the labs, there was broken glass, scraps of papers and shattered equipment—all evidence of the sudden exodus. When he finally arrived in the basement stronghold, it too, was empty. In the back of the darkened room, a cage with empty manacles anchored to the cinder block walls stood open and accusing.

“Spread out! Gather up anything that may give us a clue to why these birds left,” Solo ordered harshly. He and a couple of his men continued to poke through the basement dungeon looking for something— _anything_.  
Apart from that first taunting message proclaiming Kuryakin’s capture, there was nothing. Not even a whisper, which was very unusual for Thrush. For a prize as valuable as Number Two, Section Two, there should have been noises of triumph, bragging. 

Even Martón had been strangely quiet about Illya’s possible fate. Aside from giving the codes needed to break in, he’d not even mentioned the Russian’s name again… 

Then there was the _strangest_ feeling of...disconnection. They never spoke of it, but it was one of the reasons they’d always been so adamant about going back for the other—that sense of _presence._

This time, though, it was different, _empty…_

Napoleon refused to examine that ‘emptiness’ too closely. If he did, he was afraid he’d start to believe that Illya really _was—_

Finally giving himself a firm mental shake, Napoleon took a deep breath and concentrated on trying to figure out where Thrush had moved his partner.

 

Hard as he tried, Illya couldn’t stop the waves of memory flooding over him from that horrific day. The ‘accident’ itself had been soul-shattering on its own—the pain, the realization that his gymnastic hopes and dreams were gone.

But later… when he was hospitalized, in traction… when he received the news about Dasha’s death on an icy road while trying to get to him. All these years later, he still ached from the hollow vacuum her loss had left.

“Mr. Kuryakin, I think you’ve had enough time to think about my offer. Now then, you can take your chances with my machine or I can kill you outright. Your choice...”

Illya looked the Thrush directly in the eye as he answered evenly, “Death is death—why should I help you?”

“Mr. Kuryakin, death is only a _very_ small possibility through my device.”

Illya shot him a look of patent disbelief as silence oppressively filled the area. Finally Illya, in a resigned tone murmured, “Very well, I’ll go.”

Toune beamed. “This is a rare opportunity! You will now have the ability to change the past… to not go through the crippling pain and suffering of that accident…to go on to compete in the Helsinki Olympics… and to be with your beloved. You are a very lucky man.” 

Gesturing to his men, the elated Thrush had the manacles removed. Kuryakin was escorted over to sit on a small stool next to the huge machine. Face carefully blank, he watched as the small electrodes were carefully attached to his chest and arms. Toune then threw a switch and the device began to hum. He wished his thoughts of that past would blank out as completely.

Finally, the Thrush leader seemed satisfied.

Looking at Kuryakin, he smiled, his rabbit-like teeth gleaming from the reflected glow of the lighted dials.

“Now, Mr. Kuryakin, on to your new destiny! I doubt we will meet again…”

With that, more switches were pulled. Lights flashed and the hum began to crescendo, the machine vibrating noisily…

_**And, Illya Kuryakin disappeared!** _

 

“We found him lying down on a cot behind all the smashed equipment.” Mark Slate brought forth his captive, a trembling, rabbity-looking man in a dirty lab coat.

Blinking, the captured Thrush suddenly smirked as he caught sight of Solo. 

“You won’t find him here. I sent him back.”

Solo’s eyes narrowed. “What have you done with him?” Reaching out, he gave the offensive Thrush a rough shake. Clenching his jaw, he again demanded, “What have you _done_ with him?”

The captive began to giggle. “You’ll…never find… him!” he gasped, “He…he’s not… here now…” This last statement sent the man into a fit of raucous giggling and gasping.

“What are you talking about?”

Between giggles, the Thrush finally managed to gasp out, “Mr. Kury…akin agreed…to go back…”

Napoleon’s patience was at an end, his anger rolling off him in almost palatable waves. The Thrush, finally realizing the precarious position he’d put himself into, managed to quell his mirth. 

Taking a deep breath, he began to explain…

 

Staring at the lifeless, silent machine, Napoleon could only feel emptiness. Wherever—or _when_ ever Illya was, he was out of reach. With a sad sigh, he could only hope his friend was alright.

 

Illya paused a moment, looking around the arena floor—the rings, the bars. He quirked the small smile that in the next decades would be his signature grin and taking a deep breath, began to walk out on the floor…


	2. Epilogue...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those who really want an ending.

It had been a long and difficult week… A month to the very day since Toune had confessed to sending his partner—and friend back in time. The words still sounded ridiculous, but… Sadly, from the lack of news Napoleon finally had to admit that the device had failed…and that Illya was dead.

He hoped it had been a relatively painless and quick death.

With a sigh, he shook off his depression. They’d both come to grips with the reality of one or the other dying in the field—theirs was not a safe occupation, after all. He stared at his hands for a moment. Though loathe to admit it, he’d always carried a small germ of hope that both of them would somehow survive the field and go on to something else together…or would die together—the key part being that they would somehow _be together._

With a snort worthy of his partner, he smiled. Together indeed! What arrogance.

Glancing around the office, his eye rested momentarily on the clock. Seven already… time to go home. Efficiently locking up the unfinished reports in his desk, Napoleon stood up and stretched before reaching for his ‘in’ box. Rifling through he quickly sorted through the papers, initialed a few before placing them in the ‘out’ box. Clipping notes to a couple more, he put them back for further study. 

Then he saw the memo from Lisa. Tearing it open, he closed his eyes for moment; it was the order to clear out Illya’s apartment by November 30th to make it available for a new transfer. Not really unexpected… but still a shock.

_Okay then… Take out from Ponte’s._

He scrawled out a request for a couple of personal days before calling down to stores requesting packing boxes…

 

It was _freezing_ outside. Thick drops of icy rain pelted down, the sporadic winds driving off the few leaves that had still hung tenaciously on the trees and shrubs. The calendar still said autumn, but in his heart, the cold, barren winter was upon him in full force.

Pulling up to the old building, Napoleon quickly unloaded his car and awkwardly hauled the boxes and food inside the surprisingly wide lobby. As the old-fashioned elevator crept slowly up the floors, memories of the many visits flooded his mind. 

 

The apartment was _cold!_ Oh… Illya never turns on— _turned_ on the heat before November. Quickly dialing up the thermostat, he looked around. Overflowing stacks of books filled the shelves of the two bookcases. _Should he sort through…? No…_ He’d just pack them all and go through them later. Maybe donate some of them…

The personal touches—a few nicely framed prints, the Russian tea set. As he wrapped the delicate-looking dishes and glassware, his eye fell on an oblong gift box tucked away in the back. Curious, he opened it—Scotch!

He blinked rapidly… No doubt for his birthday. Giving himself a mental shake, he opened the bottle and poured himself a glass. Smooth… As was the next glass… And the next…

 

Finally, exhausted both physically and emotionally, Napoleon peered blearily into Illya’s small bedroom. _I’m a little drunk,_ he thought through a fogged mind. _Prob’ly should have done this room first…_

Illya’s bed was neatly made, tight military corners at odds with the soft, pale green chenille bedspread. Suddenly too tired to move, he sat down on the inviting bed. Lying down, he could imagine Illya’s faint scent on the down pillows.

Smiling faintly he pulled back the spread revealing clean, white sheets. Stripping down to boxers, he slipped under the covers, turned out the small bedside lamp and went to sleep, more at peace with himself than he’d been in weeks…

 

A sudden click woke him! The small alarm clock on the bedside table had a luminous dial—4:00 a.m. _What caused that sound?_ Another almost soundless scrape—someone was entering the apartment rather carefully. Slipping his hand slowly and silently under the pillow, he brought out his Special and waited.

_There, another scrape…this time from the kitchen!_

He silently eased out of bed and crept into the kitchen.

“Napoleon…?”

“Illya…?”

Silence for a few heartbeats as both men drank in the sight of each other. Napoleon broke the silence first as he reached out and grabbed his friend in a tight hug. Suddenly embarrassed, he released his friend. “Uh…I thought you were…gone.”

Illya smirked. “As you can see, I am here.”

“Okay, spill, what happened?” Napoleon demanded.

“You don’t know…?” Illya’s response was slow and somewhat surprised. Catching himself, he asked, “I mean, what were you told exactly?”

Solo frowned. “Only that you were taken somewhere between here and headquarters. Thrush bragged about their coup at first… But then, there was _nothing._ Thrush was suddenly close mouthed about anything to do with you and none of our sources were talking.”

“And so you decided to empty my apartment?”

Napoleon shrugged.

A sudden chill crept down his back causing him to shudder. Without looking at his partner, Illya managed to ask in a very calm and casual tone, “So, I take it that you’ve never heard of Toune?”

Perplexed at the change of subject, shook his head. “Illya, you’ve said more than once that I’m a bit tone-deaf; what tune?”

Quirking his lips into a half-smile, Illya merely shook his head. “Another time…” Looking pointedly at the bottle of opened Scotch, he quirked a questioning eyebrow at his partner.

“What…?” Napoleon tried for an innocent look. Failing that, he grinned. “Thank you?”

Trying to maintain a stern expression, Illya finally gave up— _really, Napoleon’s expressions were too funny._

Deciding to join his partner, he brought out another glass. As they sat companionably, he hesitated briefly—waiting for something…

It was strange how often he’d experiences waves of Déjà vu over the last dozen plus years. Images superimposed upon similar, almost identical images. The sense of starting out on his left foot and stumbling until he used his right…

He sighed inwardly. Everything had seemed so carefully… orchestrated in his life. Almost as if he’d been given a glimpse of the master blueprint for his life which he’d needed to follow it exactly.

_Until that very peculiar letter delivered last month_ … Someone who’d known his cryptic codes, style of writing had sent a mysterious note. Strongly feeling that familiar sense of _‘I had better follow this_ ’ he left without a word, until he found himself infiltrating a relatively minor Thrush Satrapy near Detroit.

The startling sight of seeing himself as a _prisoner_ caused him to stumble, and almost get caught! He’d regrouped and snuck down to the lab where he made sure everything would be destroyed— _especially_ a strangely familiar Thrush scientist with an unfortunate resemblance to the Leporidae family.

The blast had been successful… and the weird sense of having ‘done it all before’ finally vanished!

A touch on his shoulder brought him back to the present. Raising an eyebrow he merely asked, “What is it Napoleon?”

“Just wondering where you were just now? You seemed so far away.”

A sudden blinding smile. “Not anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was done for a Halloween Challenge from a photo manip by loxelyprince.


End file.
